A Thousand Times Closer
by Higuchi Hatsuhara
Summary: A thousand times over is never enough in this romance fanfiction. Two kids coming from two completely different worlds become friends. As the past haunts their memories, they find comfort in each other. Amir and Hassan, bound princes to the streets of Kabul.


SunXKite Shipping: A Thousand Times Over Again

The dreams became more frequent since coming to Pakistan. I reached into my left pocket and pulled out the Polaroid. As my fingers crawled around the edges of the photo, a new memory popped into my head. I remember Hassan and I writing in rough characters on the branch of a withering pomegranate tree, "Amir and Hassan, the sultans of Kabul." I remembered how Ali pulled me and Hassan close to him, trying to cloud our minds with safety teeming clearly near. I remember the day I won the kite fighting tournament, I found my father looking into Baba's eyes.

I remember when I cried, seven hours, thirty-two minutes, and twenty-four seconds ago. I didn't cry because I lost a friend, a Hazara, Hassan, or even a brother; I cried because I wasn't the one behind the trigger. The guilt caused endless pain in my sides. Hassan's blood didn't soak into the crevices of my face. It didn't stain the ground that we walked on as little kids. I let a _thief _take it away from me, my right to claim my wrongs and be punished in the eyes of the right.

I wasn't there for Hassan to mutter the words of my undeserving redemption, "For you a thousand times over Amir-agha. A thousand times over!" My pathetic tears pelted Hassan and his son's pixelated faces.

A Thousand Times Over X ½: Hassan

I had two weeks to live. I didn't know of this yet, but these were the words I wanted to tell Amir beforehand, if he was by my side. It didn't sound right in my ears as I said it, but I couldn't change it.

I don't know why I took the blame for stealing Amir-jan's watch. I guess I didn't tell Baba the truth because maybe a little part of me wanted to leave. Leaving would make Amir-jan happier, I told myself.

It has been 13 years since I left my life with Baba and Amir. I keep track of the years that pass by, by making a making a mark on the ground next to my home. As the sun beamed over the hills and buildings of Kabul, I spread out my collection of favorite books. At the bottom of the stack was the aged book, "Rostam and Sohrab". My overburdened hands stroked the cover, wiping away the dust-encrusted cover. I remembered that Amir ripped out most of the pages the night before I left. I flipped the imaginary pages with my fingers. I remember that night; I snuck into Amir's room and grabbed a torn piece of a page. My right hand busy holding the book, I reached into my pocket with my left. I pulled out a neatly folded napkin with expensive silk string tied into a bow around it. As I carefully unraveled the cloth, tiny debris slipped off the edges of my palm. I placed the slither of a page in the binding of the book. I read as best I could, "If ar-t th-o…..mai fa-thr…..then ast tho-u sta-ned…..I'm learning Amir-agha. I will become an imbecile Hazara."

I marked another notch in the dry soil. I treasured my empty makeshift mailbox. I didn't care that I didn't get any mail, from Amir specifically because I could fill that mailbox with thoughts of mail that have yet to come for me. It was my "lamb at the end of the rainbow, I think it went."

Later that day, Rahim Khan visited me. He wanted me to come back to the place where I and Amir spent our childhood. How could I possibly deny him? Maybe going back there can ease these awful dreams I've having lately. I didn't really ask my wife or son, Sohrab if they were comfortable moving. They just went along with what I said.

I pinched my sides every time I approached _his_ room to make sure I wasn't dreaming, to make sure that I wasn't just chasing the shadow of a kite. I restrained myself from entering the room to not disrespect Amir. "What would Amir-agha think if he were to come home to see that I've taken his place?" I said, every time Rahim Khan asked me to sleep in Amir's sleeping quarters.

I woke up extra early every morning to iron clothes that belong to an Amir, that wasn't there. I served breakfast like a father that died, due to his diseased leg. I wept like the pain of a mother giving birth to this little Hazara boy.

The last day was the first time I smiled in a long time. The Taliban came knocking on my door. …my face buried between my knees….cloth tied tightly over my eyes…..cold steel tapping at the back of my head…my last murmur, "For You A Thousand Times Over …and once more."


End file.
